


Grace

by little0bird



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Adoption, Found Families, Gen, M/M, Mention Zeb's grandmother, abandoned kit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26659228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: The mewling cry wafting up from Kallus' feet brought him up short. Something golden-brown and covered with downy fur lay bundled on their doorstep. He set the bo-rifle aside and crouched down, nudging the blanket aside to reveal a tiny kit. Kallus’ eyes darted around, searching for the kit’s mother, but she seemed to have disappeared. He scooped the kit into his arms and closed the door.‘Well… now what?’ he whispered.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 19
Kudos: 141





	Grace

Kallus lay in bed, drowsing on the cusp of sleep, Zeb’s chest pressed against his back. He smiled to himself. At least their bed on Lira San was large enough to easily accommodate them both. Zeb’s bunk on the _Ghost_ or his own bunk on the myriad Rebel bases or carriers were barely large enough to handle their more vigorous romps. Kallus relished those. The frenzied lust after a long separation. The blood pounding in their veins after a victory. The sheer _need_ to affirm they were alive after a skirmish. The impatient shoving of just enough clothes out of the way, his forearms braced on a wall, Zen’s hands gripping his hips. Back against the wall of a deserted corridor, his legs wrapped around Zeb’s waist. Wedged in a shower cubicle, their hands and mouths saying what words could not. And the _Ghost_ , as sweet a ship as she was, had cringingly thin walls. Why Zeb never felt the need to mention this, Kallus didn’t know. Not until the morning after one particularly vocal evening, and Rex shoved a stack of waffles in their direction when they emerged from Zeb’s bunk into the common area. _From the sound of things last night, you need these more than I do_ , he’d chuckled, while taking an ostentatious sip of caf from an enormous mug. Kallus had blushed to the roots of his hair.

He loved early mornings the most. When the base was still quiet. When he lay within the circle of Zeb’s arms, breathing in his scent. When they talked quietly, laying themselves bare for one another. When the most exciting thing that happened in the bed was a restful night’s sleep. When they weren’t merely satisfying their cravings for one another. When they took their time. Where Kallus learned the difference between fucking and lovemaking. The precious moments where he stopped thinking about code breaking, slicing, data analysis… Those mornings where their shields and barriers fell away. There was no Rebellion. No Empire. They weren’t Captain Orrelios or Captain Kallus then. They could just be Alexsandr and Garazeb. Alex and Zeb. Even now that the war had ended, the stillness of the hour before dawn was his favorite. His past was a distant memory and his future a glimmer on the horizon. Not that he didn’t still get a thrill when Zeb hoisted him to the kitchen counter or bent him over his workbench, nibbling the tender skin of his neck, want vibrating through him. But this… Kallus wouldn’t give this up for anything.

HIs eyes drifted shut, listening to the birds twittering outside, still marveling that they lived on a world where birds chirped at sunrise, and there was nothing more sinister than an elder whacking him on the arm with their staff when he badly stumbled over Lasan pronunciation, turning a standard greeting of one’s elder relations into a profane suggestion.

The sound of twigs snapping and leaves swishing under someone’s feet made him feel like Ezra had dumped a bucket of frigid water on his head. That wasn’t normal. Not this time of day. Imperial training kicked in, and Kallus went on high alert. He slid from the bed, careful not to wake Zeb, and picked up Zeb’s bo-rifle from where he kept it in a rack on the wall. Kallus crept into the main room, and flattened himself against the wall by the door, and pressed the button to open it. It slid to the side with a soft hiss, and he peered around the edge of the doorway, every nerve screaming with unease.

The mewling cry wafting up from his feet brought him up short. Something golden-brown and covered with downy fur lay bundled on their doorstep. He set the bo-rifle aside and crouched down, nudging the blanket aside to reveal a tiny kit. Kallus’ eyes darted around, searching for the kit’s mother, but she seemed to have disappeared. He scooped the kit into his arms and closed the door.

‘Well… now what?’ he whispered. Tiny pinpricks on his chest stirred him to action. The kit kneaded his pectoral muscle with some vigor, gummy mouth smacking mere centimeters from his unprotected nipple. ‘Karabast!’ He hurried into the bedroom. ‘Garazeb!’ he hissed, jiggling the kit. ‘Garazeb, wake up!’

One of Zeb’s hands snaked out from beneath the bedding and cupped his arse, fingers slipping into the cleft between his cheeks. He let out a low, throaty chuckle. ‘Ready for another ride, are ya?’

Scandalized, Kallus covered the kit’s ears with his free hand. He wondered if it even understood. He shook off Zeb’s hand and leaned closer to his ear. ‘Garazeb Orrelios, not now. This is an emergency!’ He’d meant to muster his best Imperial officer voice. Instead, it came out as a desperate, strangled hiss.

The kit let out a high-pitched howl when no food appeared, despite its increasingly desperate kneading. Kallus instinctively jammed a finger into its mouth. ‘Is that a kit?’ Zeb sat up and gaped at the bundle in Kallus’s arms. ‘Where’d it come from?’

‘Someone left the poor thing at our door.’

Zeb shoved back the bedding, eyeing the increasingly agitated kit. ‘Looks hungry.’

‘Caught on, did you?’ Kallus retorted in his best Imperial drawl.

‘Think we might have somethin’….’ Zeb ambled into the kitchen while pulling on a pair of loose pants, and then rummaged through the cooler, muttering to himself. ‘Maybe… nah. What was it Hera made us give Jacen when she let us watch him…?’

At the mention of Jacen Syndulla, Kallus felt a twinge in his gut. The few times he’d been with Zeb while he cared for Jacen as an infant, Zeb had done most of the work. He just hovered, trying not to let the baby sense his fear. Kallus didn’t have siblings, nor did he have experience with babies. He was always afraid Jacen would break. More to the point, he was terrified of Hera, should he return her child with so much as a scratch or a hair out of place.

The door chimed. Kallus cursed under his breath, wondering who would want to speak to either of them at this time of day. Zeb eyed Kallus’ naked body. ‘While I appreciate the view, ya might wanna put on some pants.’

Kallus scowled, then pivoted with military precision and marched into the bedroom. Now he was faced with a new problem: what did he do with the kit while he donned his pants? ‘Karabast,’ he muttered. _Find your pants first, Alexsandr_ , he told himself firmly. That was easy enough. They were folded on top of the chest where he’d left them last night. He stood helplessly juggling the increasingly irate kit while he searched his limited memories for possible solutions in the absence of a proper crib or cradle. _I could put it on the bed… Just like Hera did with Jacen…_

Kallus removed his now-soggy finger from the kit’s mouth, eliciting a anxious wail from it. Working quickly, he wedged pillows on either side of the kit so it didn’t roll off the bed. Not that he believed it could, but he wasn’t going to take that chance. He hastily yanked on his pants, then picked up the baby once more, patting its back. ‘There, there…’ he murmured, feeling on the verge of tears himself.

* * *

An internal nudge sent Chava to the market the previous day. At her age, she didn’t question the nudges of Ashla that prompted her to gather all the paraphernalia one would need to care for an orphaned newborn kit. She took it as a sign when the wind chimes in her garden tinkled during her morning meditations, even though there was no wind. She’d opened her eyes just in time to see Alexsandr carry an abandoned kit into their house. Chava chortled to herself as she gathered the supplies. Ashla moved in mysterious ways. Of all the Lasat who could raise an abandoned kit, Ashla chose a survivor of the massacre at Lasan and the man who blamed himself for it.

She made her way up the short path, then tapped the door chime. Zeb opened the door. He didn’t seem surprised to see her there. ‘Mornin’, Chava.’

‘Garazeb.’ She toddled inside and set the basket on the floor. Her ears swiveled toward the bedroom where the kit’s angry yowls could be heard. She rooted through the basket and emerged with a bottle and a jug filled with some yellowish liquid. ‘Make yourself useful and put some of that milk into the bottle, there’s a good lad. About half-full.’

Kallus emerged with a harried expression on his face. ‘Zeb, please tell me you have something we can feed this child.’ Zeb held out the bottle. Kallus remembered watching Zeb, Sabine, or Rex feed Jacen when Hera was on a mission. He hoped Lasats were susceptible to the same techniques, as he snatched the bottle out of Zeb’s hand and rubbed the nipple over the kit’s lower lip. Its mouth opened, and he slid the nipple in, holding his breath. The kit latched on with a growl and commenced to suck as if its life depended on it. He lowered himself to the cushioned bench and leaned back with a sigh, adjusting the kit in the crook of his elbow. He was exhausted already, and they’d been caring for the kit for less than an hour.

Chava perched on the bench next to him and peered at the kit with an indulgent smile. ‘Ah. She likes you.’

‘She…?’ Kallus’ gaze swiveled from the kit to Chava. ‘How do you know it’s a “she?”’

Zeb leaned down and nuzzled the top of the kit’s head. ‘Smells like a girl.’ He gave Kallus a quizzical glance. ‘Can’t ya tell?’

Kallus snorted. ‘Alas, living on Lira San for a year hasn’t granted me with exceptional olfactory abilities.’ He settled against the back of the bench. ‘I _can_ , however, pick you out of a crowd.’ He sniffed experimentally at the kit’s head. It was a much fainter and milder version of the stereotypical Lasat scent. His eyes closed. It was… softer… leaving a hint of something Kallus couldn’t quite identify on the back of his tongue. A mix of pungent and sweet. Not dissimilar to Chava. ‘Well, we can’t keep calling her “she” all the time.’

‘Channele,’ Zeb blurted. ‘Call her Channele.’ His shoulder hitched in a self-conscious shrug. ‘It was my grandmother’s name.’ He looked up at Kallus. ‘She survived Lasan.’

Chava smiled. ‘I remember your grandmother,’ she commented. ‘A tenacious warrior, like her grandson.’

‘Channele…’ Kallus rearranged his hold on the baby and rubbed his one cheek, then the other over the top of her head, arms tightening protectively around her. He’d seen far too many children left to their own devices by parents who simply didn’t have enough money to care for them. Or who’d fallen into the insidious trap of various addictive substances. Or who were much too young to care for a child. The surface and lower levels of Coruscant tended to chew up those who couldn’t fight back and spit them back out, broken and defeated. ‘Why did her mother abandon her…?’

Zeb folded himself to the floor and draped himself over the back of the bench. ‘Eh…’ His fur fluffed around his face, a clear sign he was embarrassed about something. ‘Doesn’t happen often. Sometimes, if a kit’s born small like that, the mother’ll reject it. ‘Specially if she’s birthed twins or triplets. Usually, she’ll leave the kit with one of the elders, an’ they find a home for it in another village.’ Zeb cleared his throat. ‘And, ah, don’t take this the wrong way, but…’ he cautioned, scratching the back of his neck.

‘When you say it like that, I’m already taking it the wrong way,’ Kallus snapped.

‘Right… Well… She’s the wrong color, ya see.’

‘What do you mean, the wrong color?’ Kallus throttled his voice down into a testy stage whisper so as not to disturb the kit.

Zeb held up a placating hand. Kallus radiated with restrained indignation. ‘Ya might’ve noticed most Lasat are purple. If yer not purple, ya stick out. Lasat useta think something was wrong with kits if they weren’t purple.’ He stroked the top of the kit’s head with a gentle fingertip. ‘Some of the higher caste’ll reject a kit if it’s not born with purple fur.’

‘So why did Channele’s mother leave her with us in particular, as opposed to an elder?’

Zeb merely grinned and ran his hand through Kallus’ messy blonde hair. ‘Alex, yer hair is the same color as her fur.’

Chava nodded to herself. There were times Ashla led someone to make a decision that didn’t seem to make sense on its face. Such as Garazeb and Alexsandr finding one another in the vast reaches of the galaxy. And there were others where every pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She slid off the bench. ‘I’ll be off, then. I’ll come back later to see how the three of you are getting on.’ She merely patted Zeb on the shoulder, but pulled Kallus down and rubbed her cheeks over the top of his head in the manner a parent would do with a child, then did the same to Channele. ‘You’re in good hands, little one,’ she crooned in Lasan to the kit, then left.

Kallus flashed a smug grin at Zeb. ‘I told you Chava likes me better.’

Zeb snorted. ‘Only because yer practically a kit by Lasat standards.’

‘I am forty years old, Garazeb,’ Kallus said dryly.

‘Yeh, but ya speak Lasan like a kit.’ Zeb laughed softly, lest he wake Channele.

The bottle was nearly empty when Channele spit out the nipple, signaling she was satisfied. For the moment. ‘Ya gotta burp her,’ Zeb rumbled helpfully. ‘Prop her up against your shoulder… yeh, just like that, then pat her back until she burps.’ Kallus gulped, but lightly patted the kit’s seemingly fragile back. Zeb began to wheeze with laughter. ‘Harder’n that.’ He climbed over the back of the bench and delivered several firm pats to a spot between her shoulder blades. Channele quickly rewarded them with a resonant belch. Kallus’ mouth fell open, as he looked at the tiny kit with a mixture of wonder and horror. If she could produce a belch in inverse proportions to her size, what else was she capable of doing? Zeb merely laughed. ‘Heh-heh-heh… Nothin’ wrong with her appetite.’

Channele blinked sleepily at them, then yawned, and fell asleep, her nose nestled into the thicket of hair on Kallus’ chest. He contemplated her for several long moments. She was perfect. There was nothing in her life except endless possibilities. That frightened Kallus more than Darth Vader and Grand Admiral Thrown combined. What he knew about caring for infants or raising children could fit on the tip of a stylus. He could, however, enumerate a thousand ways he might ruin her life. All his memories of his own father were vague and faded by time and distance. The only thing he could recall with any clarity was a taciturn man, who left the small, dark, flat in Coruscant before dawn each day and returned home well after young Alexsandr had gone to bed. His father’s free days were spent dozing in front of a Holodrama or some shock boxing, nuna-ball, or podracing program. His memories of his mother were a little brighter, a little more tangible. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the touch of her lips against his hair. Once he was old enough to attend the crèche every day, she started working, spending her days on her her hands and knees, scrubbing the careless messes of the Coruscanti elite. She was an old woman before she was thirty, perpetually exhausted and careworn. ‘Would it be irresponsible of us to keep her, Garazeb?’

‘Ya already made that choice, Alex.’ Zeb leaned down and brushed his cheeks over the top of her head. ‘When ya scented her.’

‘Nevertheless…’ Kallus shifted until he could lean against Zeb’s chest, wedging his hips between the Lasat’s thighs. ‘It’s not a decision one should make lightly.’ He gestured with his chin to the HoloNet running soundlessly in the corner, a breaking news banner announcing the birth of Han Solo and Leia Organa’s first child flashing obnoxiously over the screen. ‘Like those two, for example. Frankly, the last two people in the galaxy that should have procreated together are Leia Organa and Han Solo.’

Zeb merely grunted in agreement before he ventured, ‘D’ya wanna raise kits together?’

’A topic we ought to have explored before committing ourselves to one another.’

‘Never had time,’ Zeb pointed out. ‘An’, yeh, the Rebellion talked about hope all the time, but how often did ya let yourself think about what ya wanted if we won?’

’Never.’ Hope might have sustained the Rebellion, but never had Kallus let himself think beyond the next day. Not for himself. It was all for the Empire or the Rebellion. ISB agents didn’t think about their own wants and desires. Neither did Rebellion intelligence officers. What Alexsandr Kallus wanted didn’t matter in the larger scheme of things. Until he met Zeb, he figured the trajectory of his life would comprise of long and proud service to the Empire, a short retirement, and a hopefully quick and painless death. That is, if he didn’t die serving the Empire. He’d always assumed he would be alone. Things like a family were superfluous for Imperial agents. And for Rebels. Families were tools to be used against you. Tools the Empire would use to break you. A family hadn’t existed in his thought process at all. Not even in his wildest fantasies.

‘We don’t hafta keep her,’ Zeb said, breaking into his thoughts with a rarely used gentleness in his voice after Kallus had been silent for a rather long time. ‘We can ask Chava to help find a home for her.’

Kallus bent his head to nuzzle the downy fluff behind one of Channele’s ears. He wasn’t an ISB agent. Nor was he a Rebel Alliance captain. Not anymore. And while the galaxy wasn’t perfect, Lira San was almost as sheltered as one could get. The longer he cradled the kit in his arms, the more he felt that this was where he was meant to be. Regardless of what he desired, the choice wasn’t his alone to make. ‘What about you, Zeb? Do you want her?’’

Zeb’s arms wound around Kallus, cradling him and the kit. Even as a young member of the Honor Guard, he’d wanted to family to carry on the proud traditions of the Lasat. And those dreams shattered in the blink of an eye. His parents and siblings died on Lasan, and his grandmother, who’d miraculously survived, died just a few years later. Before he met Chava and Gron, Zeb reasoned he would die alone, and the galaxy would forget the Lasat ever existed. All those years of living with Kanan and Hera showed him the family you found was every bit as valid as the family into which one was born. And here in this sun-drenched room, Ashla had returned his dreams. Alex, and now Channele, were his family. ‘Let’s keep her, then.’

Kallus angled his head to peer down at the sleeping kit. ‘Channele Orrelios.’

‘Kallus-Orrelios,’ Zeb retorted. ‘She’s yours, too.’

‘She doesn’t need my name to know she’s mine.’ Zeb sensed Kallus’ shoulders tightening. ‘She shouldn’t have the name of… of…’ Kallus audibly gulped. ’Someone who helped to nearly wipe out an entire planet’s population of her species in the most painful way possible.’

Zeb drew the pad of a finger down one of the still-pink scars that lined Kallus’ arms from his rite of atonement. ‘And ya paid yer penance for it.’ He brushed his cheek against Kallus’. ‘Yer a Lasat now, an’ that’s all that counts. She’ll take yer name,’ he said with a decisive nod.

Kallus chewed his bottom lip. It was futile to argue with Zeb when he took that tone of voice. More stubborn than a Wookie. ‘All right.’

Word spread rapidly through the village. By midday, gifts began to appear on their doorstep according to Lasat tradition for families that took in an abandoned or orphaned kit. Baskets of food, clothes, toys. One of the older Lasat left a cradle with only a request to please gift it to another family when the time came. A few mothers chose to present their gifts in person so they might offer solicitous bits of advice. They suggested different ways in which they could hold her and advised them to hold Channele to their bare chests as much as possible so she might learn their scent and associate it with comfort and security. One mother brought a long strip of cloth and taught them to arrange it in a series of complicated loops and folds to create a sling that would allow them to cradle Channele against their chest and retain the use of their hands. Kallus felt almost pathetically grateful for it, drinking in every word with the zeal he’d once applied to gathering intelligence.

A few of the mothers bustled in their kitchen. Judging from the beatific smile on Zeb’s face, the mouthwatering aromas surely triggered pleasant memories of his own childhood on Lasan. One of the mothers began to sing. Zeb’s face lit up with a gleeful smile, and he joined in, singing quietly to Channele.

The next several days passed in a haze of never-ending feedings followed by nappy changes, punctuated with all too brief respites when Channele slept. Kallus received a crash course in Lasan lullabies from the mothers, because he didn’t even know any in Basic. He was grateful none of them laughed at clash of the proper guttural sounds of Lasan and his crisp Coruscanti accent. More often than not, the afternoon found one of them sprawled across the bed, Channele clamped to their chest with one hand, while they both snored companionably. Channele quickly developed strong preferences for each of them and wasn’t shy about expressing them. She wanted Kallus to feed her first thing in the morning, but for Zeb to put her to bed at night. She complained about soiled nappies before Kallus or Zeb could so much as determine she needed a fresh one.

To Kallus, it felt like serving in the Rebellion. Constantly moving. Constantly adjusting to something new. Wondering what new development the day would bring. Functioning on less sleep than was ideal.

It was enough to make him question his sanity. Especially the one morning, when in a sleepless fog, he reached into the cooler, grabbed Channele’s bottle, and poured a generous dollop into his caf. It was only after he drank half the mug that comprehension dawned. He’d shrugged and polished off the rest of the mug before dragging himself off to take a shower. No sense in wasting good caf.

Lasat tradition dictated a turning of the moon should pass before a family performed the rite to officially adopt a kit. Time passed by quickly, and before Kallus realized it, the moon would turn within the next few nights.

He slumped on the foot of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling between his thighs, watching the kit sleep. Zeb tiptoed into the room and pressed a mug of something warm into his hands. Kallus lifted the mug to his mouth. The liquid was milky and sweet, reminiscent of Sabine’s favorite treat before she went to bed. Between the soporific effects of it and the dimly lit room, Kallus felt his shoulders begin to unknot themselves. Zeb lowered himself next to Kallus, bumping their shoulders together. ‘Ya ready for the ceremony?’

Kallus nodded, sipping the drink. ‘Zeb…? Does this…?’ He waved at Channele. ‘Frighten you at all?’

‘Outta my kriffin’ mind,’ Zeb replied promptly.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Kallus confessed. ‘I’ve read everything I can find, searched the HoloNet, talked to nearly every mother in the village, and…’ He let out an explosive breath. ’Half of it contradicts the other half. Let her cry herself to sleep, or pick her up and comfort her? No Holos at all or just the ones where someone tries to teach her something in a fashion that’s engaging to young children?’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘What if… I am a terrible parent?’ he asked quietly, unconsciously slipping from Basic to Lasan. ‘And I make all the wrong decisions? And…’ He made a resigned gesture with one hand. ‘Ruin her life?’

Zeb squinted at Kallus over the rim of his mug. ‘Yer not gonna ruin her life, Alex.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I… What?’

‘How do you know I won’t ruin Channele’s life, Garazeb?’

‘I don’t.’ Zeb set his empty mug on the floor. ‘I just… Ya show up. All right? Ya show up every day, and do the best ya can with what ya got.’

Kallus blinked. ‘That… sounds like the unofficial creed of the Rebellion.’

‘Yeh. And it worked.’ Zeb took Kallus’ mug from his unresisting fingers and set on on the floor next to his. ‘Alexsandr, if you have one fault, it’s that ya think too kriffin’ much.’ He pressed his forehead against Kallus’. ‘We’ll learn. Together.’ Kallus nodded, already emotionally worn out from the conversation. He followed Zeb into the confines of their bed and pulled the bedding up to his chin with a muffled groan as his limbs sank into the mattress. He shifted, scooting backwards until his back molded itself to Zeb’s chest. He continued to wriggle, seeking the warmth of Zeb’s body until one of Zeb’s hands landed on the ridge of Kallus’ hip. ‘As much as I want to,’ he muttered, undulating his own hips into Kallus’ backside, ‘I’m so tired that the idea of doin’ anything more’n this bed than sleepin’ makes me wanna cry.’ He nuzzled the back of Kallus’ head. ‘Kinda wish Sabine were around. She could watch Channele…’

‘And return her to us dyed three different colors…’ Kallus yawned. He felt Zeb’s smile against the back of his neck.

‘Yeah…’

* * *

The moon rose full and bright over Lira San. Kallus and Zeb carried Channele to the labyrinth in the center of the village. Standing on the eastern point, an elder began to chant in a melodious baritone. He took Channele from Zeb and carefully deposited her into Chava’s arms. Another produced a long strip of fabric dyed in variegating shades that represented Earth, Water, Fire, and Air. He wound one end around Zeb’s arm, then the other around Kallus’. He then dribbled a little water from the lake over Channele’s head. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she gave no other reaction. Another elder picked up the thread of the chants, adding her voice in an alto that twined around the baritone in a series of complex harmonies. She led them to the North and unwound the fabric. She took Channele from Chava and laid her in the crook of Zeb’s elbow and wound the fabric around Zeb and Channele, then the other end around Kallus. Another rivulet of water dampened Channele’s head, and they paced to the South, matching their gait to one another as closely as possible. In the South, a third elder joined the chants, and repeated the procedure from the North, but this time, placed the kit into Kallus’ waiting arms, then bound them together with the fabric. He poured another trickle of water over Channele’s head, then led them to the West. There, he positioned Kallus and Zeb to face one another with Channele balanced on their upturned hands. Another elder joined them, and between the four of them, wove the fabric until it bound the three of them together. The fourth elder added her voice to the prayers, trickling more water over Channele’s head.

The elders each grasped one of their elbows and guided Zeb and Kallus to the center of the labyrinth, their voices weaving intricate melodies that were at once primeval and ageless. Through a series of subtle nudges the elders moved them round in a wide circle, stopping to present them at each of the four points, and to dribble water over Kallus’ and Zeb’s heads. At length, they ended facing the east, and the elders began to unravel the elaborately looped and knotted strip of fabric. One by one, the elders backed away from the center, until only Zeb, Kallus, and Channele remained.

‘What shall this child be called?’ one of the elders intoned.

Zeb glanced up and cleared his throat. ‘Channele of House Kallus-Orrelios.’

Chava lifted her staff and began to chant slowly. ‘May Ashla give you the wisdom of your ancestors. May you live as honorably as your fathers. May you live as courageously as your mothers. May your life be a blessing, Channele of House Kallus-Orrelios.’

Before either of them could take a breath, two elders approached with a scroll and a long needle, its wickedly sharp point glinting in the light from the torches that circled the labyrinth. The younger of the two, took each of the hands, jabbing the needle into the pads of their thumbs, then smeared the blood over them. The older one held out the scroll, indicating a place to press their bloody thumbprints. A dab of bacta, and it was done. Their neighbors surged into the labyrinth to offer their congratulations.

It was then Kallus saw her standing on the edge of the gathered crowd. The past year had taught him the subtle differences in dress from one village to the next. The young girl didn’t belong to any of the villages within their sector. With the expert eye for detail he’d developed as an Imperial agent, he noted with an internal start that she’d come from a northern clan. What had compelled her to come so far?

Kallus knew how to read body language. That had been one of his first lessons in the ISB. Very few people managed to school themselves as well as they thought. He’d honed his skills in countless sabacc games in the Academy. Then, he’d had to rely on small gestures and subtle tells. But this girl… It was like reading one of Sabine’s egregiously lewd holobooks with far too much detail. The evident yearning on the young girl’s face, the way she had angled her gaze toward which one of them held Channele. He knew it was her. He cupped a hand over Channele’s head as if to reassure her mother she would be safe and loved. He inclined his head a little in acknowledgement. She managed a tremulous smile. Someone jostled him from behind, and when he looked back, Channele’s mother was gone.


End file.
